


Love, War and Parenthood

by solrosan



Series: The Daniel Green Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Parentlock, Posting of old Fic, Teenagers, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:24:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daniel and his parents have different views on what is an appropriate Friday activity for a fifteen year old and John learns yet another thing about Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, War and Parenthood

Sherlock’s phone beeped. 

No reaction. 

John looked over to see why, but Sherlock seemed too occupied with something at the kitchen table to even hear the phone. It was a long time since John had decided not to ask what the experiments were about as long as the number of body parts was kept to a minimum. He also had an upper limit to the amount of mould cultivation he allowed in the bathroom, but Sherlock didn’t seem too interested in that experiment anymore. 

Not curious enough to care who tried to reach Sherlock John went back to his new project: reading all Sherlock’s books. He had gone through two so far. 

The phone beeped again.

Still no reaction from Sherlock.

The third beep earned a frown from Sherlock, but he didn’t move to get it. 

“John, would you please get that?” Sherlock asked without looking up when the person trying to get in touch with him gave up texting and finally called.

“I told you that word wouldn’t make you burst into flames,” John said with a smirk. He wasn’t even going to be annoyed by the fact that he had to put down his book and walk across the flat to answer a phone that lay about two decimetres from Sherlock’s left elbow. No, the detective had said “please” and that sort of behaviour should be rewarded.

“It’s Joyce,” John said when he saw the name on the screen, holding it out to Sherlock.

“I’m not home.”

John sighed. “Sherlock Holmes’s phone. This is John Watson.”

Sherlock glared at him for answering.

“Put him on,” Joyce greeted in a way that would’ve made John’s officers proud.

“She wants to talk to you,” John told Sherlock, covering the mike. 

“Of course she does, that’s why she’s calling _my_ mobile,” Sherlock said. “And that’s why you shouldn’t have picked up.”

“Ehm.” John put the phone back to his ear. “I’m sorry, I can’t find him. He forgot his phone.”

“He’s right beside you, isn’t he?”

“Eh, yeah…” John caved, but before he had managed to give the phone to Sherlock the consulting detective had jumped up and actually left the kitchen, shortly afterwards also the flat.

John watched him go, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Now he’s really gone.”

“That immature bastard!” Joyce blurted out. “Tell that irresponsible excuse of a man that his son is out somewhere in London without permission and I’d appreciate if he acted like a parent for once and found him.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him… that,” said John. “Anything else?”

“He could call me, but I don’t hope for miracles. So no, that’s all. Thank you.”

John stood for a moment with the phone in his hand – that had been… interesting – before he headed downstairs to see if he could catch up with Sherlock. It wasn’t all that difficult; Sherlock sat on the step just outside. 

“Joyce called,” John said, sitting down next to Sherlock and handing him the phone. “She wanted me to tell you that… that you have a teenage son running around London without permission and that it is your task as a responsible father to find him.”

Sherlock cursed, opening the phone’s inbox to read the texts he had received previous to the call. “You don’t think he’d answer if I just call him?” 

“I know I wouldn’t,” John said with a smile, thanking whatever being of worship that cared to listen that he’d been young and stupid before the invention of mobile phones.

“No reason to alert him of the fact that his mother called me, then,” Sherlock said, putting the phone in his pocket.

“Does he do this often?” John asked.

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “Not often, but it’s not the first time. Teenage child to separated young parents… It’s more than expected. Practically textbook.”

“Teenage rebellions are always as unexpected as they should be expected,” John said in a vague attempt to comfort Sherlock, even though he wasn’t sure comfort was needed.

“Do you want to come with me?” Sherlock asked as he forced himself to his feet.

“To track down your son on a Friday night?” John wanted to clarify.

“Yes.” Sherlock sighed, but put on a faith smile. “You know having a doctor along when you’re trying to stop your child from doing something stupid is kind of a comfort.”

“I see your point,” John said with a smile.

“And I might need you around to stop me from killing him,” Sherlock added grimly as he went back into 221B, muttering something about a ruined experiment that he’d worked on for eleven hours.

Twenty minutes later they were in a cab. Sherlock had thrown said ruined experiment in the sink – Petri dishes and all – looked up two addresses on John’s computer and prepared Daniel’s bed before they left. John wondered if Sherlock would ask Mycroft for help in a matter like this, but decided to not ask at all.

“You know where we should start looking?” John asked after the cabdriver had been given the first address.

“I have some ideas, yes,” Sherlock said. “He’s a fifteen year old boy from Ipswich, there’s not likely to be many places he could be. Had he been a fifteen year old girl and/or living in the city it would have been trickier. Luckily underage boys have so much harder getting into clubs than underage girls and since he’s not really from around here the risk of Daniel knowing a place that would let a fifteen year old boy in is small.”

“So where are we going?” 

“He has two friends with similar living arrangements as he does, so I bet one of these friends’ parents is out of town tonight.” – Sherlock couldn’t hide his disapproval – “If this turns out to be incorrect, I’ll just hack his Facebook account.”

“How very Mycroft of you.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Shut up.”

John had to bite his lip to not giggle.

Not fifteen minutes later the cab slowed down and Sherlock was outside almost before it had come to a complete halt. John on the other hand waited until the car wasn’t moving anymore and followed after asking the driver to wait.

Sherlock’s fingered worked its way over the list of residents in the unattractive, shabby building, stopping by an F. Gordon – John’s head exploded with Queen songs. At first there was no answer when Sherlock buzzed the entry phone, but the second time there was a rasping noise in the speaker and a male voice answered.

For a moment John thought Sherlock would just leave it since this obviously wasn’t the place where Daniel was, but to his surprise Sherlock leaned in and talked into the mike.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. It’s Sherlock Holmes, Daniel Green’s father. Jack isn’t in town tonight, is he?”

John had never heard this person speak before. He’d foolishly thought that he had got to know all of Sherlock’s different personas by now, but apparently he was mistaken. This was a parent talking to another parent.

“No… No he’s in Ipswich. Why? Has something happened?” the voice said through the crackled speaker.

“Hopefully not.” Sherlock let out a sigh. “Daniel just thought of tonight was a good night to explore London unsupervised. His mother’s in frenzy. ”

“Understandable.” The man chuckled. “Well, good luck. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock turned away from the building, looking surprised to see John standing there as if he had forgotten he had brought him.

“He has your number?” John asked as they walked back to the cab, since he couldn’t figure out anything better to say.

“No, but I’m sure it’s on some list from school or something.” Sherlock shrugged. “And Google is almost a human right now, so…. Not to mention that he’s not going to hear anything and won’t have any reason to call me.”

They got into the cab again and went to the second address Sherlock had looked up. John watched his friend in silence, wondering how much more worried he was now when the first stop had rendered itself useless. Reading Sherlock came as easy to John as reading Dari, so he gave up rather quickly. Sherlock passed the time by doing something on his phone. John suspected that a particular Facebook account was being hacked and that had to count as Sherlock being more worried than before. 

“I’d like to see Collin’s father do that,” Sherlock muttered and put away the phone as they entered the street where Daniel’s second friend lived, or where one of the parents of Daniel’s second friend lived. John assumed the hacking had been successful. 

Sherlock didn’t wait for the cab to come to a complete halt this time either, but John paid the cabbie before getting out this time. Sherlock had already buzzed the entry phone (S. Miller) when John caught up with him. 

“Maybe no one’s home?” John tried when they hadn’t got an answer after three tries. 

“Oh, they’re here,” Sherlock said and buzzed a fourth time. The fifth time they got an answer and not even John could deny that it was a party going on in the flat connected to the other phone.

“Who’sthere?” a young man spluttered over the sound of a broken base beat.

“Hi!” Sherlock greeted the teenager in an overly cheery voice, giving John a look telling him that this could be one of the stupidest people he’d talked to in his entire life. “I heard you had, like, a party?”

“Whotoldye?” 

“Danny Green, can I come up or what?”

The door buzzed and John opened it for them. Sherlock looked like he was trying really hard to compose himself as they walked up the stairs to the second floor. John felt a bit ashamed for wanting to see what was about to happen.

The door to the flat was opened – poor neighbours – and the music, screams and laughers could be heard even before they reached the right floor. John got a sudden flashback to his university days as they stepped over a smaller mountain of thrown off coats and jackets, but after that the similarities between drunk medical students and drunk fifteen year olds ended (not really, but John pretended that was the case). In the combined sitting/dining room four girls were dancing, passing around a bottle of cheap whiskey, another two girls were hanging out from a window, probably smoking, and three boys seemed to play some sort of game that John couldn’t work out, but it involved two ping-pong balls and a bottle of wine. Something broke in the kitchen with a smash, a lot of laughter and even more screaming. 

The future of the United Kingdom, indeed.

While John did these observations – noting that he didn’t see Daniel – Sherlock walked over to the stereo and, without mercy, pulled the cord. The music, and the party, stopped at once. A storm of profanities came flying from every direction, but from the kitchen came a single cry:

“ _Dad?_ ” 

Then the room went quiet.

Sherlock looked at his son with the most disappointing and disapproving look John had ever seen. God, he was happy he wasn’t on the receiving end of that. The other teenagers looked even more uncomfortable than John, which was completely understandable since they deserved the death glare from Sherlock just as much as Daniel did.

“Dad… I….” Daniel finally started.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped. “You’ve lost your right to speak.”

“But, dad!”

Whatever Sherlock had planned to answer it was distracted by one of the smoking girls throwing up through the window.

“Marvellous,” Sherlock said, sighing. “Now this is what we’ll do: every single one of you is going to call your parents and have them pick you up.”

“But, Mr Green….” one of the boys tried.

“His name’s not Green, it’s Holmes,” Daniel interrupted, giving Sherlock a glare telling that he knew the words would hurt his father. Hurt was indeed what brushed over Sherlock’s face before the stern mask was rebuild and he repeated that all of them should call their parents or he’d call the police. The teenagers exchanged looks in a mix of shame, fear and played cockiness, but all of them found their phones under the observant gaze of Sherlock Holmes. John felt fairly certain the detective wished to be anyone but Sherlock Holmes right now though.

Half an hour before midnight the habitants of 221B Baker Street left the flat after seeing all of the others off. Most of the parents had been grateful that Sherlock had broken up the party, but two of them had scolded him for it. In one of the cases Sherlock had just stood there in silence and let the words hail over him, the other time he loudly explained to the angry mother that screwing her secretary after office hours was no excuse for letting her son out on the town.

“Why do you always do this?” Daniel asked as soon as they reached the street and both John and Sherlock tried to get a cab. “Why do you always have to ruin everything?”

“Because you always do things worth ruining,” Sherlock said.

“I was just hanging out with some friends!” Daniel yelled. 

“’Just hanging—‘” Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. “Taking a train to London without telling mum and drinking the fruits of liquor cabinet raids is not classified as ‘just hanging out with some friends’ when you’re fifteen. Or ever.”

“Mum called you?” Daniel cried out, his voice breaking and his ears turning red. “This you can team up to do? When it comes to ruining my life it’s okay? But when you come to watch me play football you almost kill each other!”

“Of course she called me,” Sherlock said when Daniel stopped to catch his breath.

“Why do you hate me this much?” Daniel asked, sounding genuinely wondering and despondent. 

Sherlock stared at him, for once unable to respond. Fortunately John had just managed to get a cab and it saved Sherlock from having to say anything. Then followed the most uncomfortable cab ride John had ever endured. Daniel demonstratively stared out the window the entire time and Sherlock alternated between doing the same and looking at his son.

“Daniel,” Sherlock said, hesitantly and trying, when the door finally closed behind them at Baker Street.

“Piss off!” Daniel asked him and walked up the stairs. 

“Daniel!” Sherlock yelled but didn’t go after him. He just let him disappear and when Daniel slammed the bedroom door shut Sherlock fell back against the wall.

“Do you want me to check on him?” John wondered.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock said, sighing and pressing his hands against his eyes. “Throw him out for all I care.”

John patted Sherlock’s shoulder. He went to see if he could find a bucket (just in case) and then he waited a moment before bringing it and a glass of water to Sherlock’s bedroom. Daniel was already softly snoring and John was happy and equally surprised that the boy had decided to not cause any more trouble tonight. 

When John came out again Sherlock was in the kitchen, making tea, as if the mere presence of Daniel under the same roof made him domestic. John took over Sherlock’s usual duty and placed one lump of sugar in each mug.

“He’s already sleeping,” John told him. “Didn’t even remove his clothes.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” Sherlock said, pouring the hot water over the teabags and handing one of the mugs to John. Then he started to clean up after the experiment he had disposed of in a hurry, apparently not thinking about the tea anymore. 

“Do you want me to… I don’t know… leave you alone?” John asked after a while, finding nothing to say to comfort Sherlock. Because Sherlock needed to be comforted, it would be obvious for anyone to see, but John had a feeling he was one of the few that Sherlock allowed to see it.

“I should text Joyce,” Sherlock reminded himself. Since he didn’t bother answering the question, John assumed he could stay.

“I think you should call her,” John dared to advice. “She said she wanted you to do that every now and then.”

“But it’s so late….” Sherlock said, trying to get away from actually calling.

“You know she’s up waiting to hear for you,” John said sure of himself even though he had never met Joyce. Sherlock shook his head, but dialled a number instead of sending a text.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock said into the phone moments later, scratching the back of his neck like a nervous teen, “Yes, I found him….Yes, he’s here…. No, nothing like that. No…. I don’t- I don’t know. Yes, well, yeah…. I think so. I’ll send him back on Sunday. Yes…. All right?” Sherlock actually let a small laughter slip “Sleep tight.”

John watched him, curious and concerned. It was amazing what a difference the phone call had made to Sherlock’s posture; he didn’t look as broken now as he’d done just seconds before and something had come back to his eyes. 

“Joyce says hi,” Sherlock said and finally picked up his tea mug. “And Daniel’s staying here until Sunday, I hope it’s okay.”

“Perfectly fine,” John said. “You didn’t tell her what happened?”

“Hers was one of the raided liquor cabinets, so she knows,” Sherlock said with the same disapproving smile as when he’d been talking about the parent who was out of town. 

John wondered just how much Sherlock and Joyce didn’t get along. Judging by Sherlock current facial expression alone they didn’t have anything in common, if adding Daniel’s description of the football matches and the short conversation John had had with Joyce, John would have to say they didn’t even stand each other. The brief phone call John had just listened to told a different story though. There was something there, if only just the memory of that they had once cared for each other and the mutual concern for the boy they had brought into the world.

“So Daniel plays football?” John decided to change topic on his own train of thought as they sat down in the sitting room.

“What? Oh yes, centre- or left-back, mostly.” Sherlock went from confused to smiling. “They say he’s quite good.”

“You don’t know?” John said surprised.

“I know he’s the best,” Sherlock said confidently, but smirking. “But I’m a bit biased.”

“I didn’t know you liked football.”

“I really don’t.” Sherlock shook his head. “It’s barbaric and time consuming and more than a little pointless, but I like watching Daniel play. The joy in…. He really loves it, started playing when he was just five. I suspect this is why Mycroft bought him a violin that year, since I knew nothing about the sport.”

“But you do now?”

“After ten years by the touchline, John, it’s impossible to not pick up a thing or two,” Sherlock said with a smile. “I mean I have no idea who is the manager the UK national team for example” – John had to bite his lip to not giggle – “but I do know all the players in Daniel’s team and all referees in his league by name. I haven’t grasped off-side yet, but I’m really good at spotting when the players are diving. They do it so much more now than when they were younger. I blame the Italians.”

John laughed. “What?” 

“I have no idea.” Sherlock shook his head again as if he couldn’t grasp this concept either. “But I’ve heard that you’re supposed to do that.”

“Yes, you’re supposed to do that.” John smiled. “And the current manager for _England’s_ national team is Fabio Capello.”

“That sounds Italian, is that why we should blame the Italians?” Sherlock wondered, not noting John’s subtle correction. Probably not finding it important enough.

“He is Italian, but no, that’s not why.” John chuckled. “Can I come with you the next time you’re going to watch Daniel play?”

“You really want to?” Sherlock practically beamed with pride.

“I actually enjoy the barbaric, time consuming pointlessness of it all,” John said. “But mostly I want to hear you do chants.”

Sherlock huffed. “I don’t chant.”

“Sure you don’t,” John said, getting up to go to bed, giggling quietly about the UK national team.

When Daniel came out of the bedroom in the early afternoon the next day he looked just as much as a hung-over and embarrassed teenager as one would expect. According to Sherlock’s report neither the bucket nor the glass had been touched during the night.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said, barely looking up from the experiment he’d once again started after having aborted it yesterday. “How are you feeling?”

Daniel stopped for a moment, his face wrinkling into a raisin when he saw – or perhaps smelled? – the Petri dishes, before vaguely shaking his head and continuing to the sitting room where he fell down on the sofa. John, who was sitting in one of the arm chairs, gave him an encouraging smile that he probably didn’t see.

Sherlock followed shortly after – John was impressed by how fast the experiment concentration had been broken – carrying a big glass.

“Drink this. Doctor’s orders,” he said, putting it on the table in front of Daniel. “And when I say ‘doctor’ I really mean it.”

“It’s a salt-sugar solution,” John said in an explanatory voice when Daniel looked over at him at Sherlock’s comment. “Hung-over cure and university survival trick me and my mates cooked up.”

“I called your mother when we came home yesterday,” Sherlock said when Daniel had taken the glass. This not-so-surprising news made Daniel frown as if in pain and close his eyes. “We decided that you can stay here for the duration of the weekend if you like and I would think you’re not too keen to sit on a train for over an hour, are you? Even if it would stand as a wonderful punishment.”

Daniel slowly tipped his head back against the wall.

“I take that as a sign of agreement,” Sherlock said softly. “Now drink up, before you spill it all over yourself.”

“You’re not going to punish me?” Daniel asked in disbelief, looking back at his dad.

“Oh, you can count on it, young man,” said Sherlock. “We just haven’t decided on what to do with you this time.”

There were equal amounts of glee and threat in that statement and Sherlock went back to the kitchen, probably to make sure Daniel’s weekend plans didn’t ruin his second attempt at the experiment.

“You know,” John said quietly, leaning towards Daniel who looked more than a little crushed. “He thinks the UK has a national football team.”

This served its purpose, Daniel smiled weakly and John smiled a bit wider. 

“He also thinks Aston Villa is a Roman house in Aston,” Daniel told John.

“I do not!” Sherlock protested loudly from the kitchen. Both Daniel and John laughed; John maybe a bit louder and more amused than the hung-over teenager, but still. 

“I’m not entirely sure you deserve this anymore,” Sherlock said, entering the sitting room again, this time carrying a tray with a bowl of fresh fruit (John could see bananas, oranges and pears), a plate of scrambled eggs and a glass of water.

“I’m sorry, dad,” Daniel said, meeting Sherlock’s gaze for a long time. John wasn’t completely sure, but the apology felt like it concerned yesterday’s events rather than the innocent mockery that had just occurred. 

Sherlock placed the tray on the table in front of the sofa and gave Daniel’s shoulder a light squeeze and his blond hair an affectionate caress. Apology accepted, John supposed. 

“You’re still probably going to be grounded until you’re old enough to vote,” Sherlock said. “And you should call mum and apologise to her as well. But try to eat first and then you can take a shower and borrow some of my clothes.”

Daniel nodded and forced a smile before Sherlock went back to the kitchen again.

Shortly after dinner on Sunday John watched from the window how Sherlock and Daniel said good bye for this time. The sight of Daniel in one of Sherlock’s shirts had amused John since the boy had come out of the shower yesterday, but seeing both of them together outside 221B Baker Street felt oddly surrealistic. The hug lasted a little longer, and looked a bit less awkward, than the previous hugs John had seen them share and afterwards Sherlock seemed to take a last chance to lecture his son about something before Daniel waved to John in the window and left.

A bit embarrassed for being caught in his not-so-discrete spying John waved back. Sherlock looked up at him, shook his head and smiled a tired smile. John mimed the word “Tea” and tried in inaccurate sign language show how he drank tea out of an invisible cup. Sherlock’s smile became less tired and John was pretty sure he answered “Yes, please” before getting back inside.

“Have you decided on a suitable punishment for Daniel yet?” John wondered as he put on the kettle turned and Sherlock joined him in the kitchen for the arranging of the sugar.

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock smirked delighted. “We’re going to do absolutely nothing.”

“What?”

“He knows what he did was wrong and he expects some sort of punishment and therefore he’ll dread it until he gets it. This way it’s going to be a long and extended torment during which time he’ll be on his best behaviour, not wanting to make the coming punishment worse.” Sherlock looked very smug. “It was one of my mother’s favourite measures of torment.”

“That’s… almost diabolic,” John said with an impressed smirk.

“You know what they say, John: all is fair in love and war.” Sherlock handed him the two mugs. “And I like to think parenthood is a bit of both.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that 1) Fabio Capello isn't the manager of England's national football team anymore, but he was when I wrote this and that 2) the UK does have a national team sometimes during Olympic games and things but it's not FIFA registered.


End file.
